


Red-Handed

by smarshtastic



Series: Charity Fics [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Handcuffs, M/M, Mistakes, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: They walk him down what must be a hallway - one left, a right, and then several paces down a hallway before Gabe hears a door open and a hand shoves him inside. Another pair of hands slap cuffs on his wrists before he’s pushed into a seat, a cold metal bench. Only then do they remove the hood from his head.---Gabe makes a tactical error that lands him in cuffs.





	Red-Handed

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for twitter user [saltyeggies](https://twitter.com/saltyeggies), as a thank you for her donation to the National Network of Abortion Funds. Check them out - they do amazing work!! 
> 
> This was HEAVILY inspired by [THIS ART](https://twitter.com/Nez__________/status/1121623951518474242) by twitter user [Nez__________](https://twitter.com/Nez__________). Just look at it *_*

Gabe is not used to getting caught red handed. 

There’s no point in running - the body is at Gabe’s feet and his shotguns are still smoking. Gabe’s fast but he’s not _that_ fast. Anyway, the militia are already on him. Gabe can imagine the little red laser dots trained on his forehead. So Gabe drops his shotguns to the grimy alley floor and holds his hands up. 

“This is official Overwatch business -” Gabe starts to say, but the militia soldiers swarm him before the words leave his mouth. They grab at him roughly, forcing his arms down and behind his back. He feels a hand shove his head down hard and then his whole body is being forced to the ground. Gabe’s cheek scrapes against the asphalt. He doesn’t resist but they treat him like he is. 

The last thing he sees before the soldiers pull a bag over his head - really? What year is it? - are the wide, staring eyes of the target, bleeding sluggishly onto the concrete. 

=-=-=

Gabe stays quiet and still as the militia soldiers transport him, doing his best to figure out where they’re taking him. His understanding of the disputed territory is shaky, and the language barrier isn’t helping at all. The truck bumps along the road - it could be dirt or it could just be one of the badly-maintained side streets of the town, it’s impossible to know which. Gabe’s acute hearing can only help him so much, and the soldiers haven’t given him any useful details. The best he can do is be cooperative and wait for a moment to explain himself. 

Hopefully he gets the chance. 

At least hopefully he’ll get the chance before the Blackwatch squad realizes he’s missing and then attempts to do something _really_ ill-advised, like try to liberate him. They don’t need another international incident on their hands. 

However, Gabe didn’t exactly stay on-book, so it’s impossible for the squad to know what exactly happened to him. Improvisation is key to much of what Blackwatch does, but Gabe’s quick thinking was less “improvisation” and more “complete change of plans.” It might cost them down the road, but the payoff is likely to outweigh any of the issues that result from Gabe’s choices. 

Probably. 

The truck comes to an abrupt stop and rough hands grab Gabe. They haul him out of the truck, not giving him enough time to get his balance before they drag him bodily into some building. Gabe hears the door open and close and feels a rush of cool air from the HVAC system. Okay: not the middle of nowhere, at least. They walk him down what must be a hallway - one left, a right, and then several paces down a hallway before Gabe hears a door open and a hand shoves him inside. Another pair of hands slap cuffs on his wrists before he’s pushed into a seat, a cold metal bench. Only then do they remove the hood from his head. 

Gabe blinks several times as his eyes adjust to the light. He appears to be in some kind of interrogation room - not the kind designated for wetwork, fortunately, but the kind that presupposes cooperation, the kind of room into which you take a perp in hopes that they’ll confess with only the lightest of touches. There’s a small mirrored window set into one wall, the blinds half drawn. Gabe is seated on a bench directly across from the window, and there’s a table off to one side with a single metal chair too. Otherwise, the room is sparse, but not particularly threatening. 

He raises his cuffed hands. 

“Is this really necessary?” he asks. The soldier who apparently removed Gabe’s hood frowns at him - it’s not clear whether he understands Gabe or not. With a nod to the other soldier, he leaves the room. 

Gabe hears the door lock behind them. 

Gabe exhales and slumps down against the wall behind the bench. He tries to account for how much time he’s been MIA, but he’s having trouble gauging how long the truck ride had been. He was radio silent for a good three hours before the militia soldiers found him, but the rest of the Blackwatch squad wouldn’t actually be concerned until he was silent for at least twelve hours, maybe more. 

Jesse would figure out pretty fast that Gabe went off book, though. Gabe winces at the thought. 

There’s nothing Gabe can do but wait. He settles in, slumping further down the wall until he’s almost horizontal. He closes his eyes but he doesn’t sleep - he’s still too keyed up. He’ll take the opportunity to rest, though. He wants to be fresh in case he has to fight his way out of here. 

A period of time passes. Gabe tries counting the seconds, at first, but finds it insanely boring so he stops and tries to listen for noise outside of the interrogation room instead. 

He hears the footsteps coming from down the hall pause. Heavy boots, one of the militia men. The soldier seems to pause at the door - maybe in front of the window, actually. Gabe doesn’t move, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing steady. After a moment, the lock clicks and the door opens. Gabe lifts his head. 

The soldier is holding a tablet and frowning at Gabe. He’s grey at the temples, his dark hair neatly cropped and his uniform pristine. Though he’s part of the rebel militia now, it’s clear from his demeanor that this man has military experience. 

“Who are you?” the soldier asks in heavily accented English. Gabe struggles to straighten in his seat. 

“I’m with Overwatch,” Gabe says carefully. The soldier doesn’t sneer, but it’s a near thing. 

“You do not look like Overwatch,” the soldier says. “Where is your uniform? Your credentials?” 

Gabe shrugs. “I don’t have any on me.” 

“And you think I will believe you are Overwatch? Because you say it is so?” 

“Yes,” Gabe says, holding the soldier’s gaze. After a moment, the soldier laughs. 

“That is very funny,” the soldier says. “Overwatch does not use lone operatives. Overwatch does not conduct _assassinations_.” 

Gabe keeps his face neutral. Of course _Overwatch_ doesn’t conduct assassinations, Gabe thinks. 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Gabe says. “I’m with Overwatch.” 

“What is your name, Agent Overwatch?” the soldier asks, the disdain dripping from his voice. 

“That’s classified. A matter of international security, if you will.” 

The soldier laughs again. 

“You will not tell me your name? You work for Overwatch, but you have no credentials, no name, no associates, and my men found you standing over the corpse of one of the most wanted men in this territory,” the soldier says. 

“It does sound pretty bad,” Gabe agrees. 

“Even if you _were_ Overwatch,” the soldier goes on. “Overwatch does not have authorization to operate in this territory. We have rejected Overwatch’s authority.” 

“Yes,” Gabe says, nodding. “That’s why I don’t have any credentials on me. We didn’t want to cause an incident.” 

“I’m afraid you have caused an incident, Agent Overwatch,” the soldier says. He straightens and tucks the tablet under his arm. “I hope you are comfortable. You will be here for a long time.” 

Gabe smiles tightly. Maybe, just maybe, going off book was a bad idea in this case. 

=-=-=

Time passes and nobody comes into the interrogation room. Gabe slumps back down, waiting. His shoulders are starting to ache from the position the cuffs are keeping his arms in, and one of his wrists is rubbing too much against the metal. Enough time passes that he starts to get thirsty, hungry. He can feel the headache starting to build behind his eyes. He usually has snacks on him, to stave off the SEP-exacerbated hunger pangs, but he didn’t think that he’d be out this long. Stupid. Finally, he lets himself stretch out as best he can along the narrow metal bench. It’s horrifically uncomfortable, but years in the military, then SEP, then Overwatch has made Gabe an expert napper. He’d rather sleep through the hunger pains than sit and let it drive him batty. 

He sleeps. Badly. 

More time passes. 

Gabe’s headache becomes so bad that he’s not able to sleep any more. He ends up slouched on the bench, half-sitting, half-lying down, squinting angrily at the mirrored window. 

It’s impossible to tell how much time passes. Gabe can make a ballpark guess based on the intensity of his headache, but it seems like an exercise in futility. 

What he really needs to do is find a way out of here. 

Gabe looks down at the cuffs around his wrists. Theoretically, he could _probably_ dislocate a thumb and slip his hand from the restraints, but he’d prefer not to do that. He’s seen Jesse do it one too many times and Gabe always makes a fuss, so he can only imagine Jesse’s reaction if the tables were turned. 

Jesse is going to be pissed off enough already. 

With a sigh, Gabe hauls himself up off the bench and goes to the mirrored window. He taps on glass with his knuckles, loud enough to (hopefully) be heard. He can hear it echo in the room on the other side. If it came down to it, he could probably break the glass, even if it was the shatterproof kind. The SEP enhancements might be a pain in the ass, but they occasionally have their advantages. 

Even if he were to break the glass, though, Gabe doesn’t have any idea how he’d get out of this building. He has no clue how big it is, how well guarded, where in the town it’s located. 

In retrospect, Gabe’s initial plan was actually pretty bad. He could’ve avoided all this if he stuck to the plan. Or even somewhere adjacent to the plan. Instead, well. He’s here. 

Gabe keeps tapping on the glass, even though it rattles around in his aching skull. At some point, he wagers, someone will find it annoying enough to investigate. Or he’ll pass out. Either/or. 

Fortunately, someone does come to investigate. It’s the same soldier from the first time, though he’s wearing a more formal uniform. He looks annoyed, and vaguely flustered; his perfectly groomed hair is slightly mussed, unkempt. 

“Can I help you, Agent Overwatch?” the soldier asks, voice clipped. 

“I’d appreciate some water,” Gabe says. The soldier narrows his eyes. 

“Very well.” 

“Or you could let me go.” 

“No, I don’t think so.” 

“Are you just going to keep me here?” 

“No,” the soldier says. “We are awaiting transport to a new facility.” 

Fuck. 

The soldier turns on the spot and leaves the interrogation room. The door swings shut behind him before Gabe is able to lunge for the opening. The lock clicks decisively. Gabe bangs on the door half-heartedly. 

He has to get out of here before they move him. Who knows what the next facility will be - likely less friendly than this sterile but innocuous room. Gabe shuffles back to the metal bench and tries to think. 

=-=-=

Militia soldiers come into the interrogation room some time after Gabe had been given water and a stale protein bar. They haul him up from the bench and pull a hood over Gabe’s head before they half-escort, half-drag out of the room. Under the hood, Gabe grits his teeth and bides his time. 

The soldiers take him through the building - a different way, Gabe notes - and then out to what must be some sort of loading dock. Gabe can smell exhaust from old diesel engines. The soldiers manhandle him into the back of a truck, forcing his head down to avoid bumping it on what he assumes is a low ceiling. Gabe finds himself seated on another metal bench. He can feel the engine vibrating under his seat. At least two soldiers climb up after Gabe. There doesn’t appear to be any other captives in the back of the truck. 

Someone bangs on the side of the truck and it lurches forward. 

Gabe sits quietly, waiting. He can’t be sure how far the first building is from the new facility, but he wants to put _some_ distance between himself and the first building. 

The soldiers in the back of the truck don’t say anything. Gabe wonders if they’re sleeping. He can’t hear much over the dull roar of the ancient engines. The truck jerks and rocks over the uneven road and Gabe has to plant his feet to keep from sliding around. 

When Gabe thinks that enough time has passed since leaving the first building, he forces himself to count out another few minutes out of an abundance of caution. He only gets one chance. 

The truck hits a particularly bad pothole. Gabe takes the opportunity to slip his left hand from the cuffs, having decided to dislocate his thumb back in the interrogation room. Using his other hand to press his now-useless thumb against his palm, Gabe does his best to keep the movement small, discreet. He pauses once his hand is free. None of the soldiers in the back of the truck with him seem to react. Gabe exhales. He counts out another lengthy pause. 

Another pothole slows the truck again. Gabe lets himself pitch forward out of his seat. He feels one of the soldiers grab him before he hits the floor and Gabe twists, swinging his right fist out in the general direction of the soldier’s head. His knuckles graze the side of the soldier’s head, but the handcuffs whip around and seem to connect with something. The soldier cries out and releases his grip on Gabe. 

Gabe straightens and hits his head on the ceiling of the truck. He makes a face and pulls the hood off his head in time to see the other soldier lunging for him. He ducks then aims a punch at the second soldier’s head. This one connects with a satisfying crunch, the cuffs whipping around to flog the back of the soldier’s head as well. The soldier drops to the floor of the truck. Gabe pauses to listen, just in case any of the commotion was heard by the drivers up front. The truck doesn’t seem to slow down, so he turns towards the back of the truck and steps over one of the soldiers, who grabs his leg. Gabe tips forward just as the truck hits something or something hits the truck. The truck rolls over once, twice and then skids to a stop upside down. 

Next to Gabe, one of the soldiers groans. The other one is lying in a crumpled heap, motionless. With difficulty, Gabe levers himself to his feet. His body aches - there’s a warm trickle of blood sliding down the side of his head, and he almost definitely broke something else when the truck rolled. Gabe eases his way back to the door of the truck when suddenly the door is yanked open. Gabe lifts a hand to block out the harsh sunlight. 

“Well, well,” a familiar voice says. As Gabe’s eyes adjust to the light, he recognizes the obvious displeasure in Jesse’s face. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass to track down, you know that?” 

=-=-=

Hours later, after the Blackwatch squad was airlifted to a nearby Overwatch outpost, after they cut off the cuffs, after Gabe’s wounds were treated and his thumb reset, and after the clean-up team has been dispatched, Jesse corners Gabe in his temporary quarters. Gabe is dressed in borrowed off-duty sweatpants, sitting gingerly on the edge of his bed. Jesse is holding a tray of food - which smells _amazing_ after so long without - but he doesn’t hand it over immediately. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Jesse demands. Gabe winces. 

“At the time, I thought I was making our lives easier,” Gabe says. Jesse’s eyes narrow dangerously. 

“We had a plan,” Jesse says. “We have plans for a reason, Gabe.” 

“Since when do you stick to the plan?” Gabe counters. Jesse sets the tray down on a nearby side table with a sharp tap. 

“I don’t go completely radio silent and off the radar when I improvise,” Jesse says. Not strictly true, Gabe thinks, but has the sense not to say out loud. There’s a muscle working in Jesse’s jaw. “You could’ve been killed.” 

“It wasn’t my best idea,” Gabe admits. He watches Jesse’s adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. Neither of them say anything for a long moment. 

“You’re a goddamned idiot,” Jesse says finally. He rubs a hand over his face. 

“I knew you’d find me,” Gabe say. Jesse raises his eyes to look at Gabe again. 

“What happens when I’m not there to track you down, huh?” 

Gabe shrugs, spreads his hands. Jesse sags. 

“You’re a goddamned idiot,” Jesse says again. 

“I’ll be the one to deal with the fallout,” Gabe says. “It won’t fall on you.” 

“I know. But you’re still an idiot.” 

“Yeah, well.” 

Jesse sits down heavily on the edge of the bed next to Gabe. He takes Gabe’s left hand and inspects his thumb. 

“You didn’t tell me how much it hurts to dislocate your thumb like that,” Gabe says. Jesse rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t think I had to,” he says. He brings Gabe’s hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to Gabe’s still-bruised knuckles. Gabe softens a little. He cups Jesse’s cheek with his other hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Gabe says quietly. 

“I was worried,” Jesse says. 

“I know.” 

“I thought I was supposed to be the one who did stupid shit,” Jesse says. Gabe huffs out a little laugh. 

“Maybe I’ve been spending too much time with you,” Gabe says. Jesse pulls Gabe in close. 

“They always said I was a bad influence,” Jesse says, the corner of his mouth quirked up. Gabe closes the small gap between them and presses a warm, soft kiss to Jesse’s lips. 

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Gabe murmurs when he pulls away. 

“Wish I didn’t have to,” Jesse says with an exaggerated sigh. “But I’m glad you’re okay.” 

Gabe smiles and leans in for another kiss. 


End file.
